


no sympathy from lady vengeance

by claireistheangelofhellskitchen



Category: Inhuman Condition (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Break the Cutie Trope Taken To It's Logical Conclusion, Canon Character of Color, Female Character of Color, Female-Centric, Gen, Graphic Description, Introspection, Panic Attacks, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Tamar Deserves Better, bamf female character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claireistheangelofhellskitchen/pseuds/claireistheangelofhellskitchen
Summary: Tamar has a complicated relationship with the world, as a cheek to a fist.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesweetpianowritingdownmylife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesweetpianowritingdownmylife/gifts).



> Hey! So, I really loved the webseries Inhuman Condition (if you haven't, check it out) and I really wanted to focus on my beloved Tamar and her relationship with revenge and pain because Heaven knows that everyone deserves the nuclear explosion that awaits them when they push her to the brink. This fic is a special gift for thesweetpianowritingdownmylife because I know how much Tamar (or, as they call her, nuclear cupcake) means to them! Sadly, there is an absolutely shameful shortage of fan material in this minuscule fandom and I want to change that. So here is this fic to one of my fav fanfic authors and tumblr bloggers of all time, I hope you enjoy this and may your holiday season be filled with cheer, love, and good fortune :)))

For Tamar, it was a pressure. Always. It wasn't pain (so much), or fear (sort of). It was the gnawing dog of paranoia that stole any semblance of peace from her mind or body. The coils and springs of her being all winding impossibly impeccably taut and waiting. For what exactly? Something she is sure. And in this life, what she was, what was watching her, the fears and nervousness were all too real to dismiss by counting backwards. 

The foot on her chest was two-fold; one of the outside pressing in, and one on the inside pushing out, the thin wall of her breastplate straining under the push and shove. the skin tight and tighter like a corkscrew, the pressure, the desperate angry wine bubbling unnaturally in her heart and lungs. The anxious champagne bubbles, constant hum like an electric numb always in the background of her fizzy mind, even when some of them popped into pressing, little pins poking tiny holes in all of her control. even the crawling ant-like pincers of fear and unease and lack of comfortability and just a sheer blank terror that snagged at her every short tremulous breath was nothing to the balloon being blown into till the rubber of her outside stretched to a shininess.  
She would pop. One day. It wouldn't be a wine bottle. It wouldn't be a balloon. It wouldn't be a a gunshot in a cathedral in the center of the earth. The pop would be the sound an eardrum makes when swords of sound gouging out your ability to hear. The pop you hear when a lung collapsed after a snapped rib breaks through. The pop you hear when the world explodes.  
They will all be gone.  
The pokey little eyes, all sockets now, the electricity spilling, gushing out, no more crawling creepy bugging eyes, no more ant-like looks and the murmurs she hears even more vividly in her imagination.  
They will be gone.  
The needles will melt into thin silver pools. The straps will be ashes.  
Every white frock will be little more than thread and then the threads will be razed.  
The walls won't be white anymore because they will be nothing. Not ash. Just atoms. Nothing.  
The doctors. Nothing.  
And her parents, everything rendered incapable of hurt. Not gone. Just not hurting anymore.  
The wagging slapping hands of her mother are stumps and the smooth crocodile belt wraps around her mother's crocodile jaw and crocodile tears would leak from those mean concerned eyes if there were any eyes left. Nobody would ever look at her ever again. Ever.  
She hated people looking at her. 

She apologizes over and over again to these fantasy versions of people she's hurt there, but her apologies are to people without hands or eyes, standing in the smoking wreck of what was a structure as they cry. They should cry. Nobody cries for her. They all flinch. She will make sure they won't. Their muscles will be incapable. She won't be flinched at.  
She should be flinched at. Just see these ugly horrifying thoughts. No. 

Not everyone. Graham. Graham. The name settles on her tongue and melts like a cracker into a mush. She would only eat the best parts. She has to keep something that hurts, for a good reason. There is a good kind of hurt. Right?  
(The secret treat of his name turned ugly, bitter, a good thing found bad like a wormy apple, the cracker now acidic, wrong, like bug repellent sprayed on it. Ulterior motive, ulterior motive, always an ulterior motive. They stab you with pricks, they tell you they are sewing you up but maybe they are just trying to deflate to? poking you with holes, no thread. just let them? should she let them? allow herself to be popped? why? she doesn't want to live like this. she doesn't have a choice. she can't. she has to. she should let herself be blown up for the safety of people. of course. of course. except...)

And Dr. Kessler, she would be here. Kessler and her lovely, darkly-colored jackets with straight lines and her lovely questions with straight outsides and crooked insides, her lovely, lying, mouth, pale and pink as raw salmon. She would keep her mouth, the mouth that says nice (untrue) things. She has hands that were always so nice and held away from her. She wouldn't take those hands away. She likes those hands and fears them too. The hands are clever, far, far, gentler and yet far more frightening then the hands of any doctor or teacher or mother. Those hands are white as the mold on a fermented fruit, with the indent of a ring still pressed into her finger.  
(She could crawl into those hands and just suck on the poison of their stillness, suffocate in the snowdrifts of those clever hands. those clinical and oh-so-uninvolved hands. let their frost creep into her blood as Kessler gave advice on how to keep warm.)  
But no eyes. For certain, no eyes. Kessler's eyes could gouge a person to their bone and pull out every hidden entrail. Still sweet. Still nice and pale. She, nice and pale. Too many nice and pale people. She was like a little ghost, tangential, hovering in the sphere of people's private spaces and yet touching nothing and unable to be really touched. 

There were nice things, she guessed. There were leather jackets with the nice metal parts. There was music and a million different hair dyes to choose. There was cooking, maybe. But if came down to it, eggs and leather and jazz, if she had to trade it for a world with no windmills, no schools, no hands, no eyes, and no walls ever again?

well...  
fuck the world. 

all the sweet things will turn to raw ache and bitter aftertaste eventually and the pleasures of existence will crisp and ooze and turn to ash like a marshmallow on a coal.  
the sweet ashes will mix all to easily with the remains of this world that is sharp and pressing and watching and hurting and holding back at every single second of every single moment even though she can't help it. 

honestly.  
fuck the world.  
if it comes to that.


End file.
